


your blood drool attracts the flies

by Plexus (toitsu)



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game), In the Flesh (TV)
Genre: M/M, Unresolved Issues, Zombies, i dont even fucking know this is self indulgent piece of shit, in universe slurs, off screen murder and violence, slow burn kinda, some animals were harmed in the making of this movie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-24 04:34:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30066729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toitsu/pseuds/Plexus
Summary: michael myers was bad news way before he crawled out of his grave and ate his sister's face.
Relationships: Michael Myers/Jake Park
Comments: 6
Kudos: 16





	your blood drool attracts the flies

**Author's Note:**

> dbd characters set in the 'in the flesh' universe, with killers being the zombies and survivors as human volunteer force hell bent on killing them.  
> you are all welcome.  
> title from the song 'Eat raw meat' by Editors.

i.

jake has known this, of course, the way everyone did – no one _had_ _to_ say a word but they gossiped regardless, of his looming presence, and his dark eyes (dead, even _before_ \- ), how there was something _not quite right about that boy,_ how he never - not ever – talked, as long as anyone could remember -

and that was all _before._

there was more gossip, after. he was not even laid in the grave when tongues started wagging, _so tragic, a car accident,_ but also how someone found a bloody knife, found the masks, and not a single person – not even the parents – shed any tears. the funeral was not a sad goodbye. it was a collective breath of relief.

(it was a known thing, never discussed out loud, that he went to his grave already riddled with lead)

(jake has known this. if he knew anything else, he kept it to himself.)

and then, _after_. oh after. no one was surprised when he was spotted among the horde.

i.

it was and was not a surprise that he got _rounded up –_ because he was bad news, even before, and there were _many_ people gunning to _put him down for good,_ and yet – no one was surprised when no one could.

i.

jake has known this, of course, the way everyone did – small town, full of scared people who had to pass the time somehow while clutching their guns and waiting for signs – but jake has also known because when laurie patrols the woods he is right there beside her most of the times, and she doesn't talk much but when she does. when she does.

she was in the house, you see. she was there when her brother came home, tracking grave dirt over the floor. her voice always hitches when she says, _and he just – he killed her. just like that._

i.

they did not have guns, the first night. they were taken by surprise after the rain, after midnight – by the _scritch scratch_ on the windows, the walls, they died because they opened the doors.

i.

the army could not mobilise fast enough. the army could not get to them in time. they were scared, desperate, shaken – but resourceful as well, when push came to shove. it helped that the rotters were slow. were stupid, and hungry, and shambled around in droves.

(but they did not tire, did not stop, and some of them still – some were still _fresh_ enough, skin mottled purple, and green but – )

(some were still fresh. you learned to either shoot fast, or died.)

i.

claudette comes to sit with him in a bar, when it's late enough that the regular crowd has thinned out, but not so late that they draw more than cursory notice. they are not exactly friends but. times were rough, and they looked after each other. she's patched him up often enough that no one wonders why they sometimes hang out.

(it is _really_ important, to be above reproach, in a town full of trigger-happy folks).

she orders a drink, and he clinks his glass against hers when it arrives. she doesn't smile. _ah,_ he thinks. _something i'm not gonna like._

she has a metal case with her, the kind he noticed in the clinic lately, small and grey and no markings on it.

claudette drinks. sweeps her gaze around. people nod at them but no one else comes over to their corner. jake patiently waits for her to work up to whatever she wants to say.

when she speaks, its soft – deep sigh, exhale and – _so i shouldn't actually tell you this, but well. you know how this town is. no secrets._

he nods in agreement.

_this one, though. it's big, jake. and we really don't want everyone freaking out._

his rifle is slung over his back. comforting weight. he doesn't reach for it even though something about the way she speaks makes his skin crawl. he shifts.

she keeps her face relaxed. hidden under the table, her fingers find his leg and she _grips._

_they are sending them back._

i.

he drives her back home and she shows him what's in the case. shows him how it works. _neurotryptiline,_ he mumbles the word printed on the weirdest syringe he has ever seen.

_supposedly it works,_ she says, sounding unconvinced. claudette is a nurse, but she has learned to handle firearms. most people have. jake doesn't doubt she also has nightmares.

_thanks for showing me,_ he says, hopes he would never be in situation where he has to actually use it. it's not like he has anyone who could be returned to him. his head snaps up. _oh no._

_claudette. have you talked to laurie?_

i.

the woods look more sinister that night. jake doesn't go to sleep, just makes himself comfortable in the armchair, in the dark, cradles the rifle in the crook of his arm. he isn't expecting trouble. but he can't relax.

in the distance, he sees moving arcs of flashlight. things have been calm for months, but the patrols are still a thing. there are still stragglers, sometimes. there is money to be earned, or revenge to be had, because government may prattle on about the rehabilitation centers, about _cure,_ but people were scared, people lived with the threat day to day for _years_ – some of the hvf don't think highly of anyone showing mercy to monsters.

and now the government wants to send them back.

jake sighs, shifts in his seat.

claudette shouldn't have told him. jake doesn't have anyone he really lost, not like that, is still active member of the force that hunted – hunts – the rotters down.

but laurie does. she's probably not even the only one, but jake can only care about so much.

i.

he doesn't get a chance to talk to her for a while – sees her around the town when he needs to make a grocery run, and at meetings, of course, but those are hardly circumstances for things he wants to ask her. she looks pale, and tired, and maybe like she wants to hide.

jake resigns himself to wait for their next patrol.

when bill hands him the schedule, she tugs at his arm. _come to dinner one of these days,_ she says, but she is not meeting his eyes. _mom misses you._

his pulse speeds up but he bumps his shoulder into hers, plays at the levity he doesn't feel, _bet she does,_ winks – she snorts, attempts a smile, _you are an ass, park_ -

it's important that no one pays attention as they walk out.

i.

laurie lives in what used to be nice part of town, house big enough to raise three children in. house too big and impractical to defend, but they managed, like everyone else, upper floor a cannibalised shelf of itself, front lawn and backyard an improvised minefield.

he is not really there for dinner but he is patient, sits down with them, because laurie's parents have been fragile for years now, house too big and two of their kids dead; it cheers them when someone fills the empty seats.

he endures the stilted conversations, gently steers them away from certain topics – _we are still young, and the situation is, well, you know –_ when they want to know if he will make an honest woman out of laurie.

(he will not, and never had any designs on her, but it's an idea they won't give up on. they never loudly disapproved but they never really approved either, when their only remaining child, their youngest daughter, put on a uniform – not apron - and learned how to use a gun, a shotgun, a rifle and hunting-not kitchen-knife.)

he offers to help with the dishes, after. laurie's mother waves him off, _you two just relax,_ so he follows laurie and thinks how to breach the topic when they finally seclude themselves. away from all other eyes, laurie is listless, is pale, her eyes shiny and jaw tight.

_come here,_ he says softly, spreads his arms. _i know._

she is very quiet as she cries.

i.

the thing is, he doesn't know how to help her, exactly. he remembers michael in dark brief snatches, curly hair and blank face (hands that were neither rough nor gentle), knows the rumors better; remembers the way he stalked-not stumbled as he hunted. how laurie shot her brother again and again and it never slowed him down.

and someone honestly thought a guy like that would be welcome back?

i.

she doesn't know when, she says when they patrol. _we are just waiting on a call. mom and dad will pick him up. i-i don't know if i can._

jake doesn't know what to say, just squeezes her shoulder, eyes fixed somewhere distant, a dark patch that looks like – like someone huddled on the ground, maybe, or a carcass, but it doesn't move and doesn't make a sound and maybe he is just seeing things, but he shifts his hold on the rifle and slows down.

_let me know when you have the date,_ he says after a while, and the darkness doesn't move, doesn't make a sound. _i can try to, i don't know, run interference or something. if you need._

her soft thanks is interrupted by an even softer growl. their eyes meet. _your call,_ jake whispers.

i.

bill is pleased when he calls in, fire crackling in the background, laurie not looking at him, _excellent work, kids_ rumbled around his cigarette.

i.

jake is not in town all that often, considering. he doesn't even go to all the meetings, and some other members grumble at that, but jake is good at what he does, doesn't miss his shifts, so bill lets it slide. looking back, claudette was either very lucky or stalked the bar night after night to catch him. jake is still on the fence how he feels about what she said.

laurie doesn't call.

when she misses a shift, he doesn't report it. the patrol was uneventful, anyway.

i.

when he rings her doorbell, the last person he expects to see is _michael._ no one else was - _is_ that tall in this town.

for a moment he just stares at the broad chest, looks up – up – takes a step back, shocked - is he wearing a _mask_ – someone gasps in the background, a small wounded sound.

_have you lost your fucking mind,_ jake snaps at him, arms up to push him back – he is solid, unmoving, cold – _get in, get IN, before someone sees -_

i.

michael lurks in the corner, silent, menacing, still _masked_ ; laurie is agitated, playing with her gun and their mother is quietly weeping in the kitchen.

jake feels uniquely unqualified to handle any of this, except maybe to put his hand on laurie's before she shoots someone accidentaly (except she is pointing in a certain direction, and jake knows, if she shoots, it will not be a nervous finger twitch).

_not even two fucking days,_ she says harshly, _and if it was anyone but you we'd be all dead. how are we supposed to do this?_

jake tries to consider it. the enormous burden that was placed on laurie's family, and who knows how many others, taking the monsters back in after all they've done. _a major breakthrough – a cure – repairs the neural network, keeps them docile – revert to the person they were -_

perhaps there was a tolerant community, somewhere. where people could open up their homes and hearts to their dead again.

here, though. claudette is the kindest person jake knows, and even she was apprehensive about the entire thing.

fuck, him and laurie themselves killed one not too long ago, and jake was one of the few who ever bothered with capture instead of execution.

he stands up. _we are going to have a dinner, first,_ he says, and turns to face michael, _and you will pack your shit. you are coming with me._

i.

it's not late enough that everyone is asleep, there is still enough going on that he shouldn't attract undue attention – but his grip on the wheel is painfully tight, and he wonders what was he thinking, but there is no going back, now. he is not exactly _ecstatic,_ and he is maybe regreting this already but – laurie looked so grateful.

she loved her brother, once, honestly and fearlessly. last time she saw him, she emptied entire clip of her gun in him.

i.

jake lives out there, in the woods – not far enough from the town that he feels stranded but far enough that in years, exactly three people have bothered to visit (two only because he drove them there. third one had just been pissed off enough) -

(that night, _the_ _night,_ he did not even know anything was amiss. he slept peacefully. the graveyard was on completely opposite side of town, after all, so far away from him)

far enough that nobody bothers with his neck of the woods. bill doesn't assign routes anywhere close; no threat has ever come to town from this corner. jake has traps around anyway, and his weapons.

(still feels like he just painted giant bullseye on his back.)

before they exit the car, he takes a deep breath. turns to michael.

_ground rules,_ he says. michael doesn't look at him, doesn't react, his mask a white, creepy thing _._

_it's very simple. you can leave the house but don't wander far. you can't come with me when i go to town. if anyone ever comes you hide. are we clear?_

nothing. jake waits few moments more.

_well fuck you, too,_ he says, and gets out of car.

i.

except once inside – once inside, he is unsure what to do; michael just stands there, doesn't move, doesn't _breathe,_ his back to jake; like jake, an active member of hvf, with a rifle in his hands, is not a threat. jake should think of practicalities, like where michael could put his stuff. where he could _sleep._

do rotters even _sleep?_ jake doesn't know. he never really had to. he doesn't have an extra bedroom. never really needed one. his couch is not that big. it will have to be enough. he is already doing a big enough favor for laurie; michael's comfort is not a thing he wants to be concerned about.

michael turns his head, just a little, just enough, and jake – can't stay in the same room with him. needs some space. needs some air.

_stay here,_ he croaks, and walks back out.

i.

he doesn't go far, but he can't stay still enough, so he makes rounds. checks a trap here and there, tries not to think. _i brought a rotter to my house._

a rotter and a case full of _cure,_ vials full of clear liquid and the weirdest syringe he's ever seen. _shit._ he's going to have to administer that, every day, and possibly talk to claudette at some point – she is going to notice michael's absence when she makes her own secret rounds. _fuck. fuck._

what was he _thinking?_ he's had zero ideas, zero plans, only knew how to act on impulse – like when he finally snapped and ran from home, like when he picked up a rifle and fired the first shot – he only wanted to protect his friend.

he runs a hand through his hair, takes deep breaths. _calm down. calm down, jesus, fuck._

he should go back. take a deep breath, and take it one step at a time.

i.

michael is an unobtrusive guest. he doesn't eat, doesn't use up all the hot water. he doesn't make a mess. sits patiently while jake fumbles with syringe in the mornings. jerks violently when it connects. he doesn't speak. he doesn't _breathe._

he doesn't fucking breathe, and keeps that mask on and maybe thats for the best, because what little skin jake sees on his neck, his back when the needle goes into the spine is corpse grey, tinged purple-green. he is so, so cold to the touch.

in a way, it's easy to get used to this. to go about his day, skin crawling with unease and worry that someone who shouldn't will find out. but he can go about his day. first time was nerve wrecking, but by the fourth shift he is starting to expect to find michael in the exact same spot he left him. in a way, it's like he brought home larger-than-life doll to move around as he sees fit.

laurie doesn't really ask about him, only thanks jake again and again. only promises to hand over new case when claudette drops it off.

(at night, jake curls around his rifle and doesn't sleep).

i.

days bleed into weeks. no one visits. michael is just _there,_ all the godamn time. jake needs so many drinks.

he is a resident recluse; before the shitshow, it used to be months before he ever showed his face around any signs of civilisation. he never missed it, exactly. now he needs to see someone, anyone, just going on about their day. he's also ran out of toothpaste.

he gets the shopping out of the way first, manages few inane conversations. there is undercurrent of tension he dislikes, though. it's not aimed at him but it makes his heart speed up anyway.

bar is almost empty when he slinks in; it's still early enough in the day that the regular crowd is still at work. he sits in his usual corner, nursing a beer; he unwinds by inches. he feels safe enough here.

it lasts until david comes in and after looking around, makes a beeline for him.

i.

david and jake have never really gotten along; even with the shitshow, david possesed that same intuition all the high school bullies somehow did, sniffing out something different in jake and wanting to bring him down for it.

now, though. david does not approach with open hostility; he collapses in the seat across, looks him over; _park, my man. you don't look like you who heard the news._

_what news?_

david huffs, shoulders tense, leans towards. _fucking that,_ he grinds out, pointing behind. at officer tapp entering the bar, _evan fucking macmillan_ hulking after him.

i.

evan macmillan used to be a person who hated jake the moment they met, the little rich boy running from his life of priviledge while macmillan had fallen from grace, after the awful business with the mines. but he was also the person who did much to set up jake for his new circumstances; taught him how to hunt, how to set traps, losing it when jake found it easier to dismantle them than to get them work right. he was always disgruntled about it, like he was doing it against his own will, but refused to leave jake alone.

now he shuffles on stiff legs, his broken eyes zeroed in on jake, and his mouth is a terrible, half rotten thing with too many crooked teeth as he leers. jake is on his feet, taking aim before tapp can step in.

i.

jake is a stone cold son of a bitch. other people's words, not his. he hadn't lost his cool when he first saw the ravaged town, when they fought back, armed with whatever they could get their hands on, before bill managed to call in favors and get them properly equiped. he hadn't lost his cool when meg thompson was devoured in front of him.

it's not exactly _panic_ he feels now, his mouth sour with something like _guilt;_ finger steady on the trigger as tapp distantly repeats _stand down, son, easy_ -

_i know, right?_ david says beside him, bitter.

i.

later, he can't recall the details, if anything was said, if anybody else tried to interfere, or start a fight. he shouldered his rifle and pushed past – out, he needed _out_. he thinks macmillan _did_ say something – knowing him, it was an insult. but jake didn't hear.

when he finds his car, he also finds david at his heels. doesn't seem inclined to let jake just leave.

_so what's this, then,_ he asks, even though he has a decent idea.

( _i brought a rotter to my house -_ )

david is all grimace and tense posture as he answers, how government lost their collective minds, how they fucking sent the motherfucking rotters back. how they sent officials in pristine suits who told them they are all supposed to _play nice._

that's why tapp was there, to keep an eye out.

_the nerve of him,_ david says. _showing his ugly mug around like that._

_anyone else,_ jake makes himself ask.

david shrugs. _probably. if they are smart, they'll stay inside._ he grins suddenly. _and if not, well, tapp can't be everywhere at once, right?_

_...right._

i.

once he escapes the town, he realises he doesn't want to go back home, either. home is where a rotter lives, now.

except he doesn't have to, does he? evan macmillan was up an about. he could pick michael up, ferry him off back to laurie.

hvf wouldn't hurt her, for being rotter sympathiser. she would simply be complying with goverment orders. so very obviously against her will.

except michael myers was bad news way before he crawled out of his grave and ate his sister's face. and laurie saw it.

i.

it's just his luck that michael is nowhere to be found when he is back. jake is too tired to deal. he curls around his rifle and sleeps fitfully.

i.

in the morning, michael sits in his usual spot, waiting patiently for his shot. jake doesn't fumble anymore; he's got the hang of it. left hand, pull the collar back, exposing the vertebrae. right hand, steady, guide the needle between them. empty the vial. left arm, around michael's shoulders, restrain the only uncontrolled motion he makes ( _neural pathways reconnect_ ).

he detaches himself as soon as its safe. usually. not today. he lingers, arm still loose around michael, stares at the dark hair of the mask. at the purple-green-grey slip of skin and dark dark hole in his spine.

_do you remember me, michael,_ he asks.

i.

autumn drags on and jake sets out to prepare for winter. snow always falls early, and stays. it wasn't unusual to get snowed in for days. he never used to mind it. now, though, he makes discreet inquiries with claudette, needs a stockpile of neurotryptiline in case he can't make it to town. she promises to do what she can.

he needs to stockpile wood, and he wants to hunt.

he speaks to bill, who still refuses to give up on hvf, no matter what _them damn politicians_ say; it's a little tricky, this year, because some members have started to distance themselves, and bill is displeased. but jake is a different case. jake lives out of town. jake had no obligation to step in, was not part of the their community, and bill respects him for that. respects his kill count. bill understands that when winter rolls in, jake can't really be around.

_take care of yourself out there, son,_ bill says and clasps his shoulder.

i.

there are moments when he forgets he is not really alone anymore. when he is out, when he tends to his garden, when he chops the wood, like now. repetitive, easy work makes him zone out. he startles when something yanks at the axe mid-swing, when it's high above his head; he lets go and sprawls on the ground trying to get away.

his blood runs cold. michael is _tall,_ silent and masked and looming above him, adjusting his grip on an axe. _fuck,_ he says, scrambling, looking for a way out, looking for his rifle – michael lifts his arms.

his heart beats too fast. but he will not die cowering on his ass. he won't close his eyes. he was an idiot, all this time, let his guard down but -

axe comes down on the chopping block, spliting the log resting on it with ease.

i.

jake is not hiding. jake is not _vaguely embarrassed._ jake is just sitting in his shed, mentally cataloguing what he needs for the hunt. listening to muffled _thud. thud. thud._ from the outside.

_not like i wouldn't deserve it,_ the thought comes unbidden. unwelcome. none of this is his fault. nobody knew there could ever be any semblance of cure. nobody was considering long term stuff when the dead rose in the night, shambling and hungry for the living.

jake doesn't feel guilty about his role in all of this. people have _died,_ cruelly, painfully, eaten alive. he is not going to apologize for fighting back.

_do rotters feel guilt for what they've done?_ michael doesn't speak. it is futile to ask. michael was not all there even before he died. maybe – maybe he could ask evan, next time he goes to town.

i.

after the morning ritual, michael goes back out to continue chopping woods. jake is a bit miffed about it, but not enough to contest – it saves him time, if nothing else. he still wants to hunt before the snow falls, while he can still reach the town and the vet.

after yelling _i'll be back later_ and _don't wander off!_ , he sets out.

i.

years ago, while he still lived in ivory tower, when he was being set up for _success,_ he never dreamed he would find himself content like this. alone, in the wilderness, tracking faint prints in the cold dirt. he only wanted to get out. success was not good grades, was not flaunting the wealth, increasing the money piles. success is crouching, not breathing, eyes on his prize – finger resting lightly on a trigger. success is only getting one shot and making it count.

i.

success also weighs like, a fuckton, and he is drenched in sweat when he finally hauls the catch to his truck.

i.

it would be easier if he had help, but jake is old hand at this. he will not ask. even if the animal is too heavy to easily manouver around. it's fine. jake can deal. _jake is not going to ask a rotter to help him gut anyone._ even if it's just an animal.

he is almost wheezing by the time he manages to hook it, has to sit down before going for a knife to start working.

bloodletting is easy. skinning just takes time. gutting is messy but it needs to be done. he doesn't hear footsteps. doesn't hear any sounds, any breaths, because michael _doesn't breathe_ but he is _there_ , his hand cold on jake's wrist. on the handle. _he is taking the knife._ and jake can't stop him. he is too slow, too weak, and the knife goes up – goes up.

stops.

jake can't breathe.

michael lifts his mask, just slightly, just enough for his mouth, tip of his nose to show. his lips are tinged blue. and then he licks the blood and gore off the blade.

jake runs.

i.

he doesn't remember driving to town. to laurie's house. doesn't really remember banging on the door, rushing past her; is vaguely aware he is pacing around her room, agitated, gripping his rifle tight.

_jake? jake? did something happen? what's wrong? jake?_

he feels the slap, though, feels it orient him, her eyes on his, her hand gently tracing the cheek she just hit.

he looks down, looks around; _he took the knife_ , a nonsense response but he feels her going taut.

_did he hurt you,_ she asks, voice sharp, hard.

_no,_ he says. _he just._ he moves away, feels crowded; she follows him, and he turns his back to her. _i panicked,_ he admits to the wall.

_oh jake,_ she sighs, and moves behind him. he doesn't flinch when she hugs him. doesn't relax either.

_you could bring him back, you know. there are some...others. up and about. you don't have to hide him anymore._

and she is right. he doesn't. it could be fine, to bring him back. laurie can be ruthless, is armed. laurie can call for help more easily than he can. laurie could speak to bill, and bill would stop at nothing to get rid of the problem, and government be damned. no one (except maybe laurie, once), cared about michael.

_i fucked your brother the night before he died,_ he thinks, and doesn't tell her.

i.

jake never told anyone; would not tell even if michael really did die in an unfortunate car crash. there were enough dead dogs in town; there were the dead couple of teens, and even if the murders were never officialy solved, it was agreed upon that it could've only been done by someone strong and large, someone horrificaly _evil_ ; it could've only been _michael, of course._

(jake had _wanted_ , from the first time he saw him, even after he heard the rumors; but he was not _stupid –_ would not make enemy of the entire town by associating with him).

(but he _wanted_.)

i.

his shed looks like a murder scene, which he more or less expected, bits of viscera strewn about, the blood. puddles of black and blue. _huh_ , he thinks. he's never seen that before.

michael is not there, of course. and he doesn't see the knife. somehow the thought of him armed is terrifying, even if he needs no weapon to do a lot of harm.

he gets out. clean up can wait. he follows the strange black and blue trails.

i.

in the end, michael is not far, standing still in the forest, knife gleaming in a loose grip. jake approaches carefully, loud enough, rifle ready for the moment michael turns around. if he turns. if he is back in his _untreated state._

_hey,_ he says softly.

for hundred heartbeats, nothing happens. and then michael slowly turns, in increments – head first, then shoulders, then the rest. _oh,_ jake notices. _the mask -_

his face is still so handsome, even touched by deathly hues; even with his pupils bleeding cracks over the irises. skin split over his left eye, too fresh to be a scar yet.

his mouth and chin are stained black and blue.

jake is determined not to run this time as michael takes a step forward. even if he is lifting the knife. he is determined not to close his eyes. and yet he does – because michael is still handsome, but michael is still _dead,_ still a rotter who killed so many people -

he braces himself for the pain, shifts the rifle to better react. he does not expect the hug.

i.

he wears the mask most of the time, but some days he does not. he still never speaks and doesn't breathe. he is the absolute worst heat sink in the winter, when jake wants to sit close and work through his issues. some days he is okay. some days he can't look at him, barricaded in his bedroom, rifle a comforting weight in his hands.

some days he will kiss michael, and michael will slowly kiss him back. he doesn't allow jake to undress him. doesn't _react_ to any touches bellow the belt, over the clothes or not. won't touch jake like that, either.

but on rare nights jake invites him to his bed, he goes. hogs all the blankets, like an asshole.

i.

in the spring, jake will wake half pillowed on michael's chest, a weak heartbeat slowly fluttering under his hand.


End file.
